


Mobilis in Mobili

by SvengoolieCat



Series: Sven's 007 Fest 2019 [1]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Vingt mille lieues sous les mers | Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea - Jules Verne
Genre: Action/Adventure, Banter, Environmentalism, Humor, M/M, Sea Monsters, Slow Burn, Snarky Q, classic literature
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2020-06-03 02:29:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19454476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SvengoolieCat/pseuds/SvengoolieCat
Summary: There is a monster sinking ships all over the world. No one knows what it is, where it came from, or what it will do next. M sends Bond and Q on an expedition with the Americans (including the CIA's own Felix Leiter) to help hunt the monster and stop it from attacking more ships. Along the way, Bond and Q's friendship grows into something deeper, secrets of the sea are revealed, loyalties are tested, and Leiter would just like to go home before they all get eaten by sharks or something.Herein is a Bond-inspired rewrite of Jules Verne'sTwenty-Thousand Leagues Under the Sea,updated for the modern times.





	1. The Assignment

James Bond had just returned from a disagreeable stint in Wyoming when the first reports surfaced about the sea monster attacking and sinking ships. Being a former Navy man himself, he was aware of the superstition that still plagued sailors, even in the modern era of the twenty-first century. It was all too easy to spend hours on night duty, staring at a radar or out over the vast blackness of the sea, and imagining Cthulhu rising from the depths.

In any case, he wasn’t in the Navy anymore, and without proof that Britain herself was under attack (so far, all the ships sank had been of various nationalities and all over the world, only one of them being a British frigate), it was hardly his concern. The morning after he flew in from America, he took a cold shower, shaved, ate his customary breakfast of two scrambled eggs, a rasher of bacon, toast, and a cup of black coffee, and went to work. He returned his equipment to Q-Branch, flirted shamelessly with Loelia Ponsonby, and was diligently working on crafting his report of the entire mission fiasco by 10am.

He was trying to figure out how to explain that going off-grid and organizing a shoot-out in the middle of a tourist-trap “ghost town” was the best of all choices (he was pretty sure that Q was writing his own after-action report that would disagree on all points) when the red phone on his desk rang. It was the direct line from M’s office, and the sign of a summons.

“Good morning, James,” said Ms. Moneypenny. “Sorry to call you in again so soon.” She looked up from her correspondence and grinned merrily at Bond.

“You’re looking lovely as ever,” Bond said. “Any hints before I face the lion?”

Her dark eyes twinkled. “Only that you’re really going to like this assignment. It’s right up your street, I think. Go on in.”

M was not alone. The slim young Quartermaster was already occupying one of the chairs across from M and Bond slipped into the second.

“Good morning, 007,” said M.

Bond looked between M and Q, trying to get a read on the situation. It was entirely possible that he was about to get raked over the coals about the Wyoming thing, but Q was positively vibrating with something other than outrage, so perhaps not. He looked like a schoolboy, posture perfect, a memo pad open and a pen in hand ready to take notes. The agitation showed in the way he fiddled restlessly with the pen, flipping it between fingers and turning it end on end.

“Morning, M. Q.”

“Ah, 007. You’re probably wondering why I’ve called you both in this morning. I take it you’ve heard of the recent spate of sea monster sightings?” M asked.

“Yes, sir,” Bond said.

“Good. Because in this crisis, both of your names have arisen.”

Bond made a moue of surprise and turned to Q, leaning into the space between their chairs. “You have a name, Q? And all this time, I thought you were like Dashiell Hammett’s character, The Continental Op.”

Q looked unimpressed. “You’ll have to talk nerdier to me than that to get my name, 007, but comparing me to one of fiction’s most famous hard-boiled detectives is a good, if unusual start.”

“Duly noted.”

M cleared his throat. “Gentlemen. If I could interrupt the flirting. There is a crisis on, after all.”

“Apologies, go ahead,” Q said. He stopped fidgeting with his pen and was perfectly still, waiting.

“No apologies whatsoever, but please, do go on. Sea monsters?” Bond said. He was rewarded with the faintest twitch of a smile that Q immediately repressed.

“It’s highly unlikely that this sea monster is actually a giant, glowing, prehistoric narwhale or kraken or whatever the media is claiming it is. Marine biologists from around the world have unanimously discounted that possibility. There are credible rumors that this is a highly advanced submarine, approximately 200 meters in length, possibly longer. It’s even bigger than the Typhoon class of sub that the Americans have. If we trust reports, we can safely say that it has been spotted in every ocean and is responsible for the sinking of the _Moravian,_ the _Scotia,_ the _Maru_ , and as of less than an hour ago, the cruise liner _Waverunner_ was attacked in the South Caribbean.” M leaned back in his chair. “These are the ones that we currently know about, no doubt there are more losses that haven’t been reported yet.”

Q and Bond looked at each other. “Has anyone claimed credit for these attacks?” Bond asked.

“No one, which is even odder. No one has claimed credit, no one has made any demands. All attempts to signal or communicate with this vessel are ignored.”

“What’s more,” Q said, half turning to Bond and leaning on the arm rest, “is that while this sub has been visually sighted, it does not appear on any radars or satellites. Our _Helvetica_ was within hailing range, had sailors visually spotting the sub from the deck of the ship, and yet absolutely nothing appeared on their radars. They were practically on top of the damn thing, and there was nothing wrong with their equipment.”

“Are you suggesting that this vessel is somehow…cloaked from sensors?” Bond asked.

Q’s grinned. “I am. It seems impossible, but I have no other explanation.”

“Fascinating,” Bond said, a little alarmed and enchanted despite himself.

“I know, right?” Q’s green eyes sparkled.

M cleared his throat. “In any case, we can’t have something wandering around the oceans, sinking ships,” M said. “The public was already hysterical, and the news of the sinking cruise ship has them in an uproar. I know you prefer not to go out into the field Q, but we need your expertise to help figure this out. You’ll both be flying out to Miami tonight. You’ll be partnering with the Americans, aboard the USS _Abe Lincoln_.”

Q started. “You’re sending me into the field?”

“Problem?” M asked. “I know you aren’t fond of fieldwork, Q, but you’re our best in terms of innovative technologies—if anyone can crack this, it would be you. And you’ve had a demonstrable stabilizing influence on 007, which, considering the international quagmire we’re in, makes us all sleep better at night.”

Q and Bond glanced at each other. Q was an influence, all right. Not necessarily a stabilizing one.

The last time they’d been in the field together, they’d both been kidnapped (and Q had been drugged) by an ecoterrorist who made puppy eyes at Q and who had also built a dirty bomb that came within two minutes of leveling a busy shopping mall. The true and complete details of that mission were only known to Bond, who had sanitized the entire account just enough to gloss over Q’s antics whilst he was high as a kite, especially the bit where Q asked Bond to run away with him and help him take over the world. And the bit where Bond had been the tiniest bit tempted, even if he made an offhand remark about preferring a lair that included sharks.

And now they were being sent out to sea to find what might turn out to be some madman’s perfectly fascinating and secret submarine.

Bond had rather a sinking feeling.

“What if we can’t find this thing?” Bond asked, hopefully.

“Then you spend quality time working on your tan. You will be one team out of hundreds dispatched around the world. Someone will have to see something.”

The phone in Moneypenny’s office began ringing, as did M’s private line and cell phone. M reached into his top desk drawer and rattled a bottle of Tylenol before dry swallowing two.

“Good luck, sir,” Bond said.

Q and Bond made a hasty getaway, falling into easy step with each other.

“Our flight is at 1800 hours,” Q said, consulting his phone. “I’ll meet you at the airport. There’s some housekeeping that needs to be done in Q-Branch before I leave, especially since I’m not sure when we’ll be back.”

“When should I drop by for my kit?”

“When I figure out what should be in it,” Q said. A lock of dark hair fell into his eyes. “I’m afraid that I’ve never pursued the nautical equivalent of a cloaked Klingon Bird-of-Prey before, let alone one that glows and sinks ships while off the known grid. This is rather outside my usual brief. Any suggestions?”

“Something explosive. And small. Cylindrical. Perhaps clicky?”

“I’m not going to be trapped on a ship with you in possession of an exploding pen,” Q said. “I want to live, Bond.”

Bond grinned. “You’re in the wrong line of work,” he said.

“On the contrary. I’m in the perfect line of work—all the dubious prestige of spycraft, without the legwork and personal violence and kidnappings.” Q looked up at Bond through his long, dark eyelashes, the hints of a smile lifting one side of his mouth as he made notes on the memo pad.

“Perhaps some deep-water scuba gear,” Bond suggested.

Q blanched. “This thing is sinking ships, we don’t know what it is, and you want to get in the water with it?” As aghast as he looked, he wrote it down in his memo pad. “I think I might bring a couple of the new rebreathers we designed, as well. They haven’t been field tested yet, though.”

“Now’s as good a time as any,” Bond said. “Bring three. Remember our American partner. Unless you plan to leave the poor bastard to drown.” After Wyoming, Bond thought he might be personally okay with that.

“They have their own version of a Quartermaster,” Q grumbled. “She has made no secret that she wants to get her sticky little Yankee hands on my inventions. However, point taken.” Q flipped his memo pad shut and nodded at Bond. “Very well, 007. I’ll leave you to your preparations and go finish mine.”

Bond watched the Boffin Overlord go with a certain level of fondness he didn’t want to analyze. Of all the quartermasters he’d had, this one was by far his favorite. He surpassed his predecessors in brilliance, snark, and when the chips were down, steely-eyed pragmatism. Bond would be lying if he wasn’t a little intrigued.


	2. An Old Friend

Q showed up at the airport cranky and out of breath, and thrust a large, locked suitcase at Bond. He had one of his minions along to help him wrangle the baggage that had clearly been thrown together last minute. Bond supposed that extracting the Quartermaster from his domain was an involved process, especially since Q made a point of keeping up with all his sub-departments and projects.

“What’s this?” Bond asked curiously.

“Your kit,” Q said.

Bond’s eyes lit with an unholy glee that Q pointedly ignored as they filed through security and slid into first class seats on their plane.

“What’s in it?” Bond asked.

“Hundreds of manhours and thousands of pounds in R & D,” Q said placidly. Then he put on his eye-mask and settled back for the long flight from Heathrow to Miami, via JFK.

Bond plucked up the eye-mask.

“My kit requires an entire suitcase?” he’d asked, a little gleefully. He’d gotten used to the small gadget cases, and only being outfitted with a couple gadgets a mission. To get a mysterious kit the size of a suitcase was like seeing a large wrapped box under a Christmas tree. When Q wasn’t looking, he’d even tried a discreet shake or two.

“It does,” Q had said.

“Any hints?”

“None.”

“You’re very cruel.”

“I am.” Q confirmed. He looked pleased at the accusation. “Especially if you ask for it nicely.”

“I could pick your pocket for the keys,” Bond said. He had a hazy idea of how to break into the cargo hold. It involved a bottle of vodka, the pretty flight attendant who had ogled Bond’s ass while he put his carry-on in the overhead compartment, and a minor manufactured emergency, possibly timed for when Q inevitably went to the restroom.

Now the boffin grinned at him in a way that could only be described as naughty. Bond’s plans screeched to a halt. He forgot that Q could be a crafty bastard in the field, and he’d probably see Bond coming from a mile off.

“You could. You most certainly could. But which pocket and where?” Q said brightly. “Shall I add ‘exhibitionism on planes’ to your list of kinks?”

A little old lady across the aisle shot them both a horrified, scandalized look. Bond waggled his eyebrows at her and watched her turn an interesting shade of puce, while he mentally sorted through a list of responses.

He settled on: “You’re keeping a list?”

Q hummed noncommittally. “Hmm. Is that all, Mr. Bond?” he asked. Bond wasn’t sure if Q was ending the conversation or daring Bond to follow through on his threat.

“Until we’re at least a mile up, I suppose so,” Bond grumbled and flicked the eye mask back over the laughing green eyes.

“Promises, promises,” Q murmured back, and Bond huffed back a laugh.

Q waited to debrief until aboard the USS _Abe Lincoln_ , and in their own secure room. The nature of their mission and Q’s status as a high-ranking official meant that they were assigned officers’ quarters rather than bunking in with the enlisted, who were crammed 50 beds a room.

They had a twin-sized bunk bed along the far wall, with storage drawers underneath the lower bunk. They also had a small desk with a light, a wardrobe, and a bookcase. The entire room was maybe 10x12 feet. Q eyed the space with a crinkled nose, but Bond was thrown way back into his Naval days.

“I get the bottom bunk,” he said. In case of trouble, he’d be able to handle a threat faster. If he didn’t return to MI6 with Q hale and healthy, it would be a toss-up as to who would skin him first, M or Moneypenny or R.

“I don’t mind topping,” Q quipped, and unlocked the suitcase. “Now pay attention, 007.”

Inside the suitcase was a veritable treasure hoard of gadgets. Bond wasn’t a religious person, but for a moment he thought he heard angels singing.

Q rummaged through and pulled out the first object. “I couldn’t fit an entire scuba suit in a suitcase, and anyway, we’re on a ship. We’ll make do with what they’ve got. However, I did bring this face mask. It is designed for the best watertight seal not on the market, and has a headlamp built into it, with a battery power of six hours of low beam, three of high beam. It also comes with its own emergency rebreather and air supply. If something happens and your lines get disconnected, you’ll have about 5 minutes of air to figure out the problem.”

“Handy,” Bond said, thinking of all the times he’d had underwater ado with enemy divers who cut his lines.

“Here we have the newest version of the spear gun. You put it together like so—” Q demonstrated, “and if you push this button, it will interface with your mask for greater efficiency and accuracy.”

“More of a personal statement?” Bond asked, dryly.

“Just so.” Q picked up a syringe. “This is a satellite tracker. Very expensive, state-of-the-art, and our most powerful tracker to date. Since you dug the last one out like an animal, I’ll ask you nicely to leave this one alone, or I’ll put the next one in your arse and see how well that works out for you.”

Bond offered his arm with a resigned sigh and allowed Q to go through the process of injecting it. He had no doubt that the boffin would make good on his threat, and that Q would enjoy it entirely too much.

“Your gun, with extra ammo,” Q said. He checked it over absently, the lights going green at his touch, and then slipped it into Bond’s shoulder holster himself, before patting Bond’s jacket back into place. “ _Do not_ let this out of your sight. The Americans have been trying to get ahold of my palm recognition technology for years, and I’ll be very, very cross if they manage it now.” He picked up a device that fit in the palm of his hand. “This is the latest GoPro underwater camera in case we have the opportunity to get a good look at the sub.”

Bond nodded, taking the camera and turning over on in his hands. Nifty device to have for a diver, he thought, wondering why it never occurred to him to buy one. Then he pointed to the last two items in the suitcase. “What are those?”

“Exactly what they appear, 007,” Q said. “A box of protein bars and a paperback novel. Just in case the food is horrible, and the mission gets boring.”

“It’s a bodice ripper from the ‘90s that smells like stale cigarettes. Is that Fabio on the cover?”

“I was in a hurry and didn’t have time to cater to your literary sensibilities, Bond. Besides. I got it and about twenty others on the last day of the library sale. Five pounds, and they hand you a Mystery Bag full of random books. You take your chances that you aren’t getting _Twilight,_ or anything written by Chuck Tingle.”

“You live so dangerously, Q.”

“Read it and weep, 007.”

Bond was saved from having to respond to that by a knock at the door. “Room service!”

Q stowed their kits under the bed while Bond grinned and opened the door.

Felix Leiter lounged in the doorway.

“Felix!” Bond said, delighted. “They didn’t tell me we were going to work with you.”

Leiter shook his hand and gave Bond a solid thump on the back. “Gotta admit, I kicked a bit on this one. I’m not a huge fan of the ocean in general, since my brother made me watch _Jaws_ when I was six and it scared the shit out of me. But then they said I’d be paired up with the Quartermaster from MI6 and some deranged assassin he’s bringing for a protection detail. I thought to myself, _Now, who could that be?_ and signed up straightaway. Things are never dull when you’re around.”

Leiter’s eyes skimmed over Bond’s shoulder to where Q was observing the proceedings with keen interest.

“Q, this is Felix Leiter. We’ve had some adventures over the years. Felix, Q. He looks harmless, but don’t be fooled.”

“And he builds technology that verges on the magical, I hear,” Leiter said.

Q smiled and shook hands. “Delighted to put a face to a name. But flattery will get your own quartermaster nowhere, Mr. Leiter,” Q said. “Although, do send my best to Amelia.”

Leiter’s mouth twitched. He looked at Bond, who shrugged like _See? I told you_.

Q just grinned.

“Well, then,” said Leiter. “Let’s go hunt us a white whale.”


	3. The Monster Emerges

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our intrepid heroes find their monster, and also find out that it bites.

Despite being out on the open sea patrolling their designated area in the Caribbean, Q saw only marginally more sun than usual, and Bond saw _Q_ only marginally more than usual. Q spent a fair amount of his day in various laboratories or on the bridge, collaborating with the ship’s engineers to fine-tune sonar devices and sensor equipment, trying to figure out ways to spot the sub directly or indirectly. When he wasn’t doing that, he spent some hours each night on an encrypted laptop and phone line, talking to his staff back at Q-Branch. Half of what Q muttered to Bond over meals or in his sleep went over Bond’s head, but the boffin was vexed and intrigued in turns. Bond made sure to drag him to the gym and out into sunshine and fresh air at least an hour a day and prodded him to eat at regular intervals.

“Boffins cannot live on granola bars alone,” Bond intoned. He heaped an extra spoonful of powdered eggs onto Q’s tray every morning, disregarding the small grunt of protest.

Unlike Bond, who was food motivated in the extreme and rarely missed a meal (even a bad one) if food was on offer, Q seemed to be like a vampire: skinny, pale, and owl-eyed when Bond came to bully him out of whatever hole he’d claimed as his own and frog-marched him along to lunch or dinner. During their walks on the deck he hissed and squinted watering eyes at the brightness of the light reflecting off the waves, and it was one of Bond’s favorite things.

When he wasn’t terrorizing Q with his notions of healthy diets and exercise, Bond spent most of his time on deck with binoculars. They had spectacular weather, and Bond spent hours with Felix Leiter, scanning sapphire blue waves dotted with the occasional floating water bottle or strands of kelp. In the distance, he watched humpback whales and pods of dolphins and small fishing boats. Every so often an excited shout would ripple through the deck and the ship would change course, only to find that it was chasing a very confused and alarmed sperm whale.

“This is the most boring mission I’ve ever been on,” Leiter complained. “Two weeks, and we’ve nothing to show for it.”

“Q’s fit to be tied,” Bond said mildly. “This was a fool’s errand from the beginning.”

Truth be told, Bond himself was getting restless. In the beginning, the sun and endless waves soothed him, but weeks of forced inaction grated. There was only so much time he could spend in the gym or looking at waves before he started contemplating trouble. Q’s agitation, hidden to all but Bond, was catching.

Leiter was no better. He spent the first week alternating between the sunny deck and a quiet corner with his laptop, working through a backlog of reports. For an American, he was a calm and easy-going bloke, but even he was starting to prowl the decks like a caged panther.

By the third week, even Q had given up all pretenses and was counting down until they made port and flew home to London.

“We’ve done what we can, but it’s all academic unless we catch up to the damn thing,” Q said. The three of them were spending the rare stormy evening in Bond and Q’s quarters. Q had stalked in from wherever he’d been, shucked his shoes, and coiled up in the cramped top bunk with his phone.

Leiter and Bond were sitting at opposite ends of Bond’s bunk with a bottle of contraband rum, a pile of playing cards, and a cloud of suspicion between them.

“You’re lying,” Bond said. “I can tell from the line between your eyes.”

“ _You’re_ lying,” Leiter counter accused. “I can tell from the pointiness of your prominent ears.”

“Now that’s just mean. Do you have a Queen, or not?”

“Or not, James Bond, this is an American vessel. Go-fucking-fish. Got a five?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Neither do I, but I’ll happily take the ace that you stuck up your sleeve when you thought I wasn’t looking.”

“Only if you surrender the two of clubs you have up yours.”

The two men stared at each other, unblinking.

Then they traded the stolen cards.

Q peered at them upside-down over the edge of his bunk. Gravity tugged at his hair. “Are you two seriously playing Go Fish, and cheating at it?”

Bond took a swig straight from the bottle and handed it to Leiter.

“Monopoly has a cheaters edition, why not Go Fish?” asked Leiter.

“I think I saw that game in the rec room,” Bond said.

“The last time I played Monopoly, my sister didn’t speak to me for two months, my boyfriend dumped me, and my grandmother organized an emergency prayer meeting amongst her old biddy friends and the vicar for the salvation of my corrupted soul,” Q said. His eyes were very green and predatory and there was something edged in his grin. “Want to play with me, gentlemen?”

They stared at him. Bond thought it might just have been the gentle corkscrew motion of the ship, but he felt a swooping, falling-in-love churn in his stomach.

A klaxon interrupted whatever response they might have made him, and something in Q’s bunk chimed.

“Sighting!” He swung over the side of the bunk and landed catlike, reaching for his shoes.

“There are twenty sightings a day,” Leiter said. He was busy watching Bond’s hands for shenanigans.

“This one is legitimate,” Q said. He grabbed his coat and light messenger bag of tricks. “Probably. This is the worst night we could meet it, so naturally, it appears.”

Leiter and Bond abandoned their game, grabbed their coats, and followed on Q’s heels. Q ran the stairs two at a time and skidded out on the slippery deck. The storm had abated considerably, and the ship was already in the process of turning to starboard.

“There,” he said, fishing his binoculars out of his bag. He switched it into night-vision mode and scanned the water for a moment. He made a satisfied noise and handed the binoculars off to Bond.

He didn’t have to point it out. The damn thing was huge and glowing.

“Christ,” Leiter said. Bond handed him the binoculars.

Sailors ran past them, securing the deck and bellowing to each other.

“We’re going to fire on it,” Leiter said, handing the binoculars back to Bond.

The missiles seemed to have no effect. The glowing monster-sub was still there when the explosives cleared. It turned with the deadly deliberation of a shark.

Q’s hands gripped the railing so hard his knuckles gleamed white in the darkness. “Brilliant. We don’t know what it is, or what it’s capable of, but sure, let’s shoot at it. Bloody Americans. No offense, Felix.”

“None taken. Shooting at shit that scares or pisses us off is the American way of life, and it often bites us in the ass,” Leiter said.

“Maybe that explains why it’s coming straight for us,” said Bond. “I think we just made it angry.”

“We’re retreating,” Leiter noted. “Probably looking for the nearest port.”

The glowing sub cut across the ship’s path and made a wide semi-circle around them before approaching once more from the aft. The sub was like a wolf, stalking up and then falling back, before drawing parallel with the frigate and pacing her. It had incredible speed, easily matching the 35 knots the frigate was maintaining as it opened the engines.

“Is it herding us?” Q asked. The light rain plastered his hair and he kept wiping his glasses to clear the lenses.

“I’m not sure.”

“Where did it go?”

The glowing sub had disappeared. Bond heard the black waves breaking over each other and he scanned them for any hint of the other vessel. He found them black and empty.

“I need to get to the bridge,” Q said.

“I’ll go with you,” Bond said.

No sooner were the words out of his mouth than the ship jumped and shuddered beneath them. Bond heard a sound like a muffled explosion or car wreck, a thump and grinding of metal. The three of them went sprawling across the deck.

“Too late,” Q said, horrified.

The ship klaxons fell silent. Then the ship’s horn sounded six short blasts and one long blast. It paused, and then the sequence repeated. “Abandon ship!” Bond said, recognizing the international code.

“Where the fuck are lifeboats on a naval ship?” shouted Leiter. “This ain’t a cruise ship where they’re all on deck. Hey, you,” he loped off, grabbing a sailor by the arm.

The ship listed sharply, sending Bond careening into the railing. The deck slid under his shoes, and the gentle rain got heavier. There was another muffled explosion sound, and the acrid smell of black smoke. Water started swamping the lower decks of the ship and a wave broke over the top deck, sweeping up everything not bolted down and everyone who didn’t have the immediate presence of mind to hold onto something.

Everyone, including Bond.


	4. Man Overboard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our heroes have a very soggy night.

Bond hit the water and was promptly buried underneath it by the force of the wave. In the darkness, he couldn’t tell up from down, let alone how far down he was. The water was unexpectedly cold, driving the air from his lungs in an involuntary exhale. Bond considered himself a strong swimmer—he swam laps several times a week at the gym and amused himself snorkeling and scuba diving in the various tropical locales he visited, but being swept overboard in the middle of a stormy night after the ship he was on was attacked by some kind of submarine-sea monster was enough to test even his courage.

If not for years of training during his time as a double-oh or as a naval intelligence officer, he might have panicked and drowned right there. He stroked hard twice and broke the surface of the water. He’d been swept a distance from the black mass of the sinking ship, and only managed a few breaststrokes toward it when another swell dunked him under.

The cold and the waves sapped his strength, and his clothes weighted him down. Go figure, it wouldn’t be some raving egomaniac that killed him, but a sea monster. Swimming got harder, and the sinking ship seemed further and further away as the waves and current carried him off. He tried calling for help, but his voice came out a feeble, panicky croak that made him furious.

Still struggling, Bond slipped under again. Water filled his mouth and nose.

 _This is the end_ , he thought. _Hold your breath and count to ten_.

A strong hand closed around his collar and pulled him back up, and an arm wrapped around his chest in a life-guard’s hold as a voice in his ear said: “Try not to drown on me, 007, the secretarial pool would never forgive me.”

Bond grasped Q’s arm. Fitting, that he should die in the field with Q’s voice in his ear.

“Don’t give up yet,” Q said. “Look, it’s not a floating door, but I’ve got a life preserver and I like you enough that I’ll share.”

“Q?” Bond asked, stupidly.

“If you’re expecting a busty redhead mermaid, I’m afraid you’re going to be disappointed.”

Bond grasped the life preserver and the two of them floated. In the darkness, Q’s face was deadly white, and droplets clung to his glasses. Only Q would survive a sinking ship with his eyeglasses still on his face.

“Were you swept overboard, too?” Bond asked.

“Oh, no.” Q shook his head. “When I saw you’d gone over, I grabbed a life preserver and leapt in after you.”

“Are you an idiot? Now we’ll both die out here.”

“The ship is fucking sinking, Bond. Given the choice of dying there with them or out here with you, I much prefer your company. Less screaming. Wouldn’t want to die with a headache.”

Bond wasn’t sure how to respond to that.

From the beginning, Q had been unswervingly loyal to his agents, and certainly to Bond. When other quartermasters would have abandoned Bond to his fate during his madcap shenanigans, Q just dug in deeper and moved mountains with a hand-shovel if that’s what it took. Even now, facing a near-certain death by hypothermia and drowning if he was lucky, sharks if he wasn’t, Q was composed and cracking snide jokes.

Q was an unnatural companion, and Bond loved him for it.

“Leiter?” Bond asked, as they started swimming for the wreckage of the ship together. If the sea gods smiled on them, perhaps they’d get picked up by a life raft and then get rescued before they all reverted from maritime law to “a custom of the sea” that allowed cannibalism in extreme circumstances.

“I don’t know,” Q said.

In the distance, the ship blew up, sending flaming shards of shrapnel in all directions.

“Well, fuck,” said Q, who had a filthy mouth when things weren’t going his way.

“Do you know where we were?” Bond asked.

“Not a clue,” Q said. “Pick a direction. Hopefully we’ll wash up on a desert island, or something.”

“That way,” Bond said, pointing.

They swam in that direction.

Bond didn’t know how long they’d been in the water. Even with the storm letting up, he didn’t have the guidance of the moon or stars to navigate by. As the hours dragged on, holding on to the life preserver got harder. Q’s face was set into hard, determined lines, but Bond saw him wearing down as well.

“Bond, look!” Q said. “Glowing! It’s the monster.”

Sure enough, through the waves Bond saw the bioluminescent glow of the sub.

“Bastards,” Q growled, and the life preserver between them was shoved along with a bit more force. “They might drown me, but I’m going to go _stomp_ an annoying jig on that _fucking_ sub if it’s the _last_ _fucking thing I do_.”

“That’s the spirit,” Bond said, struggling to keep up with Q’s rage-fueled pace. When they were next to the giant sub, Q let go of the preserver and clawed his way topside.

Bond was tired. Even with one arm threaded through the preserver, the hours of cold made his muscles cramp, including his bad shoulder. They’d been adrift most of the night, if the brightening horizon was any indication. Bond wasn’t sure how long his attention drifted, but suddenly there were hands on his arms and shoulders, hauling him out of the water.

“Hey, hey, James,” someone tapped his face. “Don’t go to sleep.”

The prodding hand delivered a slap. The gloaming sky resolved itself into Felix Leiter’s dark face. Bond blinked at him.

“Felix?”

“The same,” said Leiter. “I need you awake, because your adorable geek is having one hell of a temper tantrum and he’s kinda scary.”

“Been a rough night,” Bond said. He sat up. Sure enough, Q was stomping along the sub, pausing every so often to jump up and down in place. It was like watching the angriest game of schoolyard hopscotch. Despite himself, Bond grinned. He might have made a sound, because Q’s head whipped around, and he pinned Bond with a ferocious stare that stripped the hide off many a double-oh.

Bond swallowed his laughter and turned his attention to the sub. The deck plating beneath Bond’s palm was sandpapery and black, not glowing at all.

Q stopped stomping. He came back to Bond and Leiter and dropped down beside them. His shoulder pressed against Bond’s. Rage spent, he just looked tired and half-drowned, with salt crystals forming on his glasses.

A rumble went through the deck under them as the aft engines started up. The sub moved forward, into the sunrise, at a leisurely pace.

“As long as it sails horizontally, I’m okay,” said Leiter. “If it has a mind to dive, I’m just gonna let myself drown, because this is shit.”

“Fair enough,” said Q. He hugged the life preserver and stared morosely into the rising sun.

It wasn’t long until Bond noticed that the water was a lot closer than it had been.

“Christ.” Leiter got up and stomped to what looked like the resounding plate. He kicked it. “Open up you goddamn bastards.”

The sub stopped sinking. There was a grating, metal-on-metal sound and a steel plate moved. A head peered out, sent a shout down below, and eight men appeared. They wore masks on their faces and were well armed. Bond and Q exchanged a look, but none of them were in any condition to put up a fight.

“Take me to your leader,” said Felix Leiter, and the three of them went below.


	5. Captivity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our heroes are taken belowdeck on the submarine for the first time, and Leiter very much hopes that the crew aren't cannibals, pirates, or worse--cannibal pirates.

“Right, so. They don’t look friendly at all,” Q said.

Bond, Q, and Leiter climbed down the rungs of a steel ladder quickly, before their silent captors thought twice about inviting it aboard. The hatch clanged shut, and Bond blinked at the sudden darkness, trying to acclimate fast. They were herded into pitch black room so intensely dark that for a panicky moment, Bond almost felt like he was back under the waves.

“We’re alive,” Leiter said.

“We should assess the situation,” Q said, from somewhere to Bond’s right. “I still have my mobile that is almost certainly fried, my Swiss Army knife, and a lot of outrage. Also this life preserver I can’t seem to let go of just yet.”

There was the sound of soggy patting. “I still have my Bowie knife,” Leiter said.

Bond ran his hands along the walls, looking for a seam, the door, anything. “I still have my Walther.” He’d shed his jacket pretty early in the swim, along with his loafers, but kept his weapon and shoulder holster. Not that it would matter; hours of saltwater would have damaged the weapon and the ammunition beyond use.

“So much for assets,” Q said. “Well. That was a quick conversation. We are captives on a submarine that has been terrorizing the open seas, and we have a knife, a multitool, a fried mobile, and a useless Walther PPK to our names.”

“And a life preserver,” Bond reminded him.

“Yes, thank you 007: _and a life preserver_.”

Bond, still feeling around like a blind man, stubbed his toe on something and swore. He discovered that the offending object was a table and a set of chairs. He heard Q swear when he presumably discovered the same thing, from another angle.

“A dining room?” Q sounded puzzled.

“I really hope they aren’t cannibals,” said Leiter. “Or pirates. Or cannibal pirates.”

“Pirates usually recruited from captured vessels,” Q said brightly.

“Goodie for us,” said Leiter.

Without warning, the lights flicked on. Bond’s eyes watered. The room did indeed contain a table and five chairs, and a nice rug covered most of the floor. The door opened and a man and a woman came in.

The man was short and broad-shouldered, with the general air and look of a pitbull that liked to bite, Bond thought. Black hair curled around his forehead, falling into equally dark eyes that scanned the captives with dispassion. He had the smooth, sunburnt-brown complexion that told Bond he was perhaps from southern France or the Mediterranean.

The woman was more interesting. Bond’s instincts screamed that she was the more dangerous. She was a tall woman, solidly built in a way that suggested weightlifting. She was not beautiful, but had a peculiarly arresting quality, with her straight nose and wide-set brown eyes. Despite the smattering of freckles across her nose, no one would ever look at this woman and dismiss her as the harmlessly cute girl next door.

Both wore a curious uniform: a hat made from the fur of sea otters, sealskin boots, and loose-fitting black trousers and tunics which allowed for comfortable, free movement. There weren’t any insignias denoting rank or nationality that Bond could discern.

The woman eyed them closely, and then turned to the man and said something in a language that sounded familiar, but Bond couldn’t quite grasp. Q ghosted up next to Bond with a vexed look which told Bond that Q didn’t know what they were saying any more than he did. Then the two pirates looked expectantly at them.

Q nudged him with an elbow. “I think they asked us a question,” he said.

“How many languages do we have between us?” Bond asked.

“I’ve got French, Italian, Arabic, and just enough Russian to make myself an offensive nuisance to their troll farms,” Q said. He pasted on a strained smile for the pirates. They stared impassively back.

“I have French, German, Italian, Russian, and Mandarin,” Bond said. “And some Japanese.”

“I’ve got Spanish and French, with some Creole dialects thrown in.” said Leiter. “Grew up in Texas, and my beat is the Caribbean and South America. I guess I can do a bit of Portuguese if need be.”

The pirates just folded their arms and gave each other A Look, before the woman repeated the question, this time with a bit more impatience.

Bond sighed and gave the captors a quick sketch their adventures so far in Russian, and then again in Mandarin. He skipped over nature of their professions and spoke instead of their ship sinking overnight. The pirates stared impassively at him and gave no indication that they understood a single word he said. Q cleared his throat and gave it a go in a flawless, accented French that took even Bond by surprise. Still no reaction. Leiter tried in Spanish.

The five of them stood in an awkward silence.

“Should we try English?” Q asked. “Although, it’s probably pretty obvious that English is our first language, what with us being British and American.”

“Can’t hurt,” Leiter said. He tried a last time in English, this time dropping nearly all details and saying simply: “We were on the _Abe Lincoln_. You sank it last night. We washed up on your hull. The world would like to know who the hell you are and why you’re attacking random ships.”

“Also, your vessel is very impressive,” added Q, ever the irrepressible boffin.

The pirates listened with calm, polite attention, but Bond couldn’t get a read on them. Finally, the pirates said something to each other and left the room, the door clicking shut and locking behind them.

“Seven or eight languages between us and not one landed,” Leiter said. “Just our luck, we’re going to have to resort to charades to communicate things like _Please don’t feed me to sharks_ , or _If you’re a cannibal, eat the skinny one first_.”

“No one has shot us or thrown us overboard yet,” Q said. He crossed his arms over his chest and shivered. “Why is it that every time I go out in the field, I get kidnapped? Not ever by anyone who even has a particular interest in me for me—only ever by accident or because I happen to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Him,” Leiter said, pointing at Bond. “It’s him. The fact that we ended up captured by the thing we were hunting is not at all surprising. This always happens.”

“We were supposed to find the sub,” Bond said, defensively. “Here it is. I had nothing to do with it.”

Except, Leiter was right. Weird things did tend to happen around him at a higher rate than most operatives.

“Top marks for us,” said Q, wearily.

The door opened, and a steward came in with a cart. There was a bowl of hot water and rags, and dry clothes like what the pirates wore. Bond rubbed the soft material between his fingers. He’d been wearing good clothes and visiting tailors on Savile Row long enough to be able to identify most fibers by sight and feel, but whatever material the clothes were made from was unfamiliar. Organic, certainly, if the fur hats and boots were anything to go by.

The three of them stripped out of their damp, salt-stiffened clothes and scrubbed the itching salt off their skin before changing into the new clothes. Bond wiggled his toes in the boots. They were soft, and quite possibly the most comfortable boots he’d ever worn.

While they changed, the steward put out bowls and started ladling soup from a tureen.

Q and Felix eyed the food with suspicion, but Bond was no stranger to being fed by villains. They tended to have truly excellent food. He still had happy recollections of Dr. Julius No’s dinner party. And Bond was British enough to appreciate the gentility that comes from breaking bread, even if it is with an enemy. There was something extremely respectable about feeding someone a truly superb final meal before you tried to kill them.

Bond examined the utensils. Everything, from the tureen to the spoons were engraved with a motto, followed by a letter:

Mobilis in Mobili  
N.

His Latin was a long time behind him; he’d have to ask Q what it meant. The N clearly meant the captain of this vessel, whoever they were.

He decided that figuring out the details was a problem for later.

He tucked into the soup with enthusiasm as his stomach grumbled back to hungry life. The broth was just salty enough, and there were bits of a flaky white fish, tiny shrimps, peppery sea grapes, arame, and other things he couldn’t identify but ate all the same. There wasn’t any bread or wine, but the water the steward poured from a carafe was cool and tasted fresh. Q and Leiter ate their own soup with similar enthusiasm. None of them had eaten for at least fifteen hours, and many of those hours had been spent treading water.

“How’d you end up here?” Q asked Leiter.

“Same as you guys, I expect. The ship started sinking and there was a fire in the engine room. I figured it was only a matter of time before the thing either blew up or sank. So, I bailed over the side. Didn’t want to get sucked down with it.” Leiter swirled his spoon in his soup for a moment.

“Smart. Were there lifeboats?”

“Might’ve been one or two rafts. I don’t know how many made it. The ship blew up not long after I went over the side.”

“Ah,” Q said. The three of them sat in subdued silence for a few moments.

“I lost all my tech,” Q said, mournfully. “All those gadgets.”

Bond nodded, seriously. “Alas, for hundreds of man hours and thousands of pounds in R&D.”

Q heaved a deep sigh and slouched over his bowl, dejectedly.

Despite himself, Bond snorted. “All this time, you have a shit fit whenever I come back without my equipment and now, I’ve still got more of mine than you have of yours.”

A hollow victory perhaps, but a victory, nonetheless.

“Shut up, I’m mourning my laptop here.” But the corners of Q’s mouth were twitching.

“I’m mourning my kit, too,” Bond said. “First kit in a long time that’s more than a gun and an over-achieving thumb drive, and I didn’t get to play with any of it. Least it wasn’t my fault this time.”

“No, it wasn’t, was it? Christmas miracle, come early.”

The rest of the dinner was finished in exhausted silence.

They nodded their thanks at the steward, who collected the remnants of the meal and left as quietly as he came.

Q swayed in his chair. Bond caught him before he fell out. At first, he thought it was exhaustion, but then Q mumbled something that sounded like, “Oh, not _again_.” Q extracted himself from Bond’s grip, managed a few staggering steps, and then sort of slithered down to the floor, stretching out on the rug.

“Are you okay?” Leiter asked.

“M’fine.” Q slurred. Then he blinked and said more clearly, “Not my first time.” He put his fur hat under his head.

A moment later, Bond caught on. His own limbs felt too loose and heavy. He’d chalked it up to an adrenaline crash, and hours of physical exertion, but as usual, Q was quicker on the uptake. “Drugs?” Bond asked.

Q made an affirmative noise in the back of his throat. There was a familiar, unholy gleam in his eye when he looked up at Bond. “Lie with me, Watson,” he intoned. He folded his hands over his stomach, with a loopy sort of resignation.

Well. With an invitation like that. He only got a single stumbled step before his knees folded under him without his permission, but he managed to stretch out next to Q.

“I can feel the boat diving,” Q whispered dreamily. “I wonder what’s down there, on the ocean floor. Think there’s a giant octopus?”

Bond’s eyes felt heavy, but he fancied he could feel the slow descent into the dark depths of the Caribbean as well. It angled gently, like a plane coming in for a landing. The sub took them from the sun, the surface, and presumably, away from any chance of rescue.

Before he went under, he shuffled close enough that his shoulder bumped Q’s.


	6. Captain Nemo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our heroes meet the commander of the vessel and are made an offer they can't refuse. Well, they could, but then this would be a much shorter and far more tragic story.

How long they slept, Bond did not know, but it must have been a while because he when he woke, the worst of the exhaustion had lifted from him. He was also sore as hell, so he gingerly stretched out. Sleeping on a floor, even with a plushy rug, was never a fun experience. Bond heard soft breathing next to him, where Q remained shoulder-to-shoulder with Bond. He turned his head, and saw Q’s hair was a tangled, salted, wild mess. Leiter’s soft snores were somewhere nearby. It was an unexpected comfort, knowing his companions were close at hand. His fingers found the warm pulse-point on Q’s wrist, and the steady thumping he felt under his fingertips was as reassuring as the measured breaths in Bond’s ear.

Someone cleared their throat delicately. Bond squinted against the overhead lights light and turned his head to see who was with them.

A pair of sealskin boots dangled off the floor just out of his immediate reach. His eyes followed the long line up the leg to the curious face of the woman he took to be the commander of the vessel. She sat on the table, looking down at them with intent brown eyes. Her mahogany brown hair was braided tightly and draped over one shoulder in a thick plait, and he wondered again who she was, and where she came from.

Her eyes moved from his face to where Bond held Q’s wrist and her expression was something like understanding, mixed with sorrow.

Bond nudged Q, whose breathing changed immediately. His pulse spiked under Bond’s fingers for a couple seconds.

Was he shamming? Had he been shamming the entire time? Bond let go of his wrist.

Bond nudged him again and was rewarded with glinty green eyes. They sat up, and found Leiter was starting to come around. Bond roused him, narrowly avoiding getting clocked when Leiter came up fighting. With all three of them on their feet and in varying stages of awareness, the commander just observed them like specimens in a tank until she seemed to come to a decision.

“Gentlemen,” she said in clear, unaccented English. “I speak English, French, Spanish, Russian, and Mandarin equally well. I could have answered you more plainly at our first meeting, but I didn’t want to surrender the element of surprise so soon. All your stories agreed on the main points, even if the details were sparse. However, I gather that you are James Bond, of the English secret service, and Felix Leiter of the C.I.A. Your reputations proceed you. The only unknown quantity is you, although I have my suspicions,” she said, looking at Q.

Q remained grimly silent.

“I am forced to assume that you are also British secret service, although you speak French like a native. Jacques was impressed.” Her eyes flickered between him and Bond, weighing and assessing their connection.

“Are we hostages?” Leiter asked. There was something ominous in his tones, and a flinty look in his dark eyes.

“Hostages are only valuable when they can be traded for something one wants. I want nothing to do with the world above, its society, or its governments. So no, you are not hostages.”

“Then why are we here?” Leiter demanded. “Why are you here talking to us now, when you wouldn’t before?”

The commander’s smile was wintery and edged. “I was deciding how to deal with you. Most annoying circumstances have brought into the presence of a woman who has broken all ties with the world. You trouble my existence. And you fired on my submarine, unprovoked. I’m well within my rights to consider you enemies, no?”

Bond and Q looked at each other. There was no point in answering a question like that, in Bond’s experience. Q’s face was impassive and flinty, as though he’d come to the same conclusion. He squared up just a little more to present a more unified front with Bond. Whatever happened next, they’d go down fighting together.

The commander studied her nails. “I hesitated for some time. I’m not obligated to show you hospitality. I wondered whether it would be feasible to keep you, or whether I should set you all back on deck and sink away without you. It was a bit of a conundrum, so I slept on it. Reasonable, don’t you think?”

“If you’re a criminal, certainly,” Q said.

“Sir,” she said, looking up at him. Her eyes were flat and black like a cop’s. “I have done away with society entirely for reasons that are my own. I do not obey society’s laws, nor do I ascribe to its hypocritical morality. In this place, I am the law. You would do well to remember that.”

The commander’s voice was mild, but her eyes flashed in a way that Bond had seen before in those driven mad with grief and rage. Whatever her loss, it had to be exceptional to send her to seek refuge on the bottom of the sea, unreachable in her submarine. This is not a person who would be arrested and brought before a judge—any judge—on the planet. She considered herself independent of all that. Beneath the waves, she was judge, jury, and if necessary, executioner. All three roles would be played with aplomb, and checked only by her conscience, if she had one.

He rather thought she did. Otherwise, they would already be dead.

She spread her hands in a conciliatory manner. “Perhaps I am an outlaw to you, but I am not a monster. I decided to keep you three aboard my vessel, since fate has brought you to me. And you will be free to roam wherever you wish. In exchange, I only ask one thing of you. Your word of honor will suffice.”

Q tilted his head, curiously. She had his full attention. If Bond knew the boffin half as well as he thought he did, Q would be burning with questions and the desire to see how every inch of the sub worked.

“Is this condition one that a man of honor would accept?” Q asked, quietly.

“Quite so. I merely ask that during certain unforeseeable but inevitable future events that you might allow me to lock you in your cabins for a while. Plausible deniability, you see. This way, I will take all responsibility for my vessel, and you may be blameless because you would have no way of seeing or stopping certain actions. Believe it or not, I abhor violence, so it would be easier on everyone if you agreed. Do you accept?”

Q quirked an eyebrow. “If we don’t accept your terms and condition, then we get sent topside for a fatal swim, right? We agree or we die.”

“A perfectly sensible choice,” the commander said.

“We accept,” Bond said. “Just one question: what do you mean that we’ll be free?”

“There is no place off limits to you,” the commander said. “You will enjoy the same movements as myself and my companions aboard.”

“This is still a sub. That freedom only means we get to pace a slightly larger prison cell than this one,” Leiter pointed out.

“You’ll get used to it. It’s not so bad. Besides, this is your life now.”

“You can’t seriously expect us to give up everything,” Leiter said, aghast.

Her nose crinkled. “It’s not as hard as you think.”

“I’ll never give my word not to escape,” Leiter said.

“I didn’t ask for it,” she snapped. “And before you accuse me of cruelty, consider that I could just as easily feed you to sharks and be done with it. Your ship attacked mine. You yourselves have stumbled upon the secret of my existence. I can’t permit you to go back. You will remain with us here, or you will take your chances out there.” She pointed up at the ceiling.

“I prefer the drier option,” Q said wryly. “After all, you only asked us to stay in our cabins every so often. It’s hardly the most binding of promises. And frankly, I refuse to die for principles or patriotism until I know how this thing works. It’s extraordinary.”

Bond glowered at Q, who shrugged unapologetically. 

The commander beamed. “The _Nautilus_ is the most advanced vessel on or below the seas.”

The steward from before came into the room and murmured to the commander in their language. She said something back, and he scampered back out.

“Breakfast is ready,” she said. “If you follow me, I would be happy to answer your questions, and give you the grand tour.” She held open the door.

Q grinned, Bond’s stomach rumbled, and Leiter just looked irritated.

“Lead on, Macduff,” Q said. “What should we call you?”

“Nemo. Captain Nemo.”


End file.
